“Of course it is,” another angry voice challenged, “because you own the whole damned town!”

“What about the folks living outside of town?” another voice yelled. “Who’s going to keep them safe?”

“I would like nothing more than to send out forces to begin checking on the outlying areas,” Shipley smoothly responded, “but it’s nighttime, if you haven’t noticed. We don’t know how many Confederate raiders are out there, perhaps lying in ambush. We barely have enough men to secure the town. If we deplete our ranks by sending our menfolk out into the county, in the dark, we run the risk of being overrun here in town if we’re attacked. Tomorrow morning, at first light, we can send out a troop of volunteers. But tonight, as much as it pains me, I must keep all available guns here in town.”

“Lots of townsfolk have family in the county,” still another voice rang out. It belonged to a warehouseman employed at Shipley’s Mercantile and General Store. “Especially men like me, who work in town but live outside town limits. You can’t expect us to just sit here on our butts in Atherton while our wives and children are left defenseless?”

“You’re tellin’ us the stockyards,” another indignant voice joined in, “and the damned train depot are more important than our families? Is that what you’re tellin’ us?”

“I’m sorry,” Shipley said, “but you all heard me declare martial law. No one will be allowed to leave Atherton until morning. Anyone caught doing so will be shot. My orders are final.”

“That’s a load of bull,” another man hollered. Others clamored in agreement. The outraged crowd was quickly becoming a mob, a mob hostile to the authority of Federal District Provost Marshal Burnell Shipley.

Shipley looked to the sheriff and marshal.

“Last thing we need is a riot,” Marshal Stacy said.

“I ain’t got enough men to quell one, if it starts,” Sheriff Foster said to Shipley. He scanned the crowd. “We may have a problem on our hands, Burnell.”

“Ain’t no problem,” said Eli Gaines. He was one of Foster’s junior deputies. In his early twenties, he was tall, anemically thin, stoop shouldered, with a sallow complexion and brown, corroded teeth. He was also known to be the fastest, and most lethal, gunman in Jackson County. Though only a deputy for a couple of years, Gaines had already gunned down three men. Rumor had it, two of them were back-shot, and the third unarmed.

“All you’ve got to do is plug the biggest loudmouth in the mob,” Gaines drawled in his high-pitched voice, “and the rest of the rabble will wilt and fall into line.”

“There’s wisdom in what Gaines says,” Marshal Stacy said.

“Then do it,” Shipley ordered. “Before things get out of hand.”